


Headlines

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Gen, Hallucinations, Mental Health Issues, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, post 1X12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:53:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22482901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: First there was a newspaper clipping on his desk: Florida man causes power outage because he didn't want to go to work.The team checks in with Bright via a series of headlines.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel
Comments: 8
Kudos: 149





	1. Chapter 1

First there was a newspaper clipping on his desk: _Florida man causes power outage because he didn’t want to go to work_.

Then there was a printout in his coat pocket: _Snake-wielding Florida man evades police for second day_.

In his mug curled _Florida man found high with five pounds of “cocaine” flour_. His bag hid _Florida man tired of waiting at hospital steals ambulance, drives home_. The back of his suit jacket proclaimed: _Florida man challenges - which Florida man are you?_

After a week of discovering notes, Malcolm smiled and asked, “Alright, who’s Florida man?”

“You,” Dani jumped in, snickering behind her tea.

Gil and JT looked at each other and shrugged. “You’re acting like I don’t know who did it,” Malcolm accused them all.

“What’d you do, setup a camera? Get an informant?” Dani teased.

He prepped his storytelling hands and pointed them at reference objects while he talked. “Jackson gets his second cup of coffee around 9:30, at which point he passed by my desk and left cocaine in my mug. Javaughn is the only one who had to print case reports. Jerell was still here when I left yesterday. Jean-luc -“

“Oh, cut the crap,” JT interrupted.

“And now I have confirmation it was you,” Malcolm turned a wicked grin on JT.

“They helped find the headlines,” JT implicated his accomplices.

Malcolm’s hand rested on his chest. “I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be - _Florida man drinks sugar for breakfast, crashes into neighbor’s house_ and _Florida man chops off own hand - names machete handy_ were next,” JT revealed.

“Clearly I need to name my machete.”

“That’s what you’re taking away from this?” JT stared at him in disbelief.

“Thanks, team.” He beamed, soaking in the love in the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Folders. Papers. Precarious stacks upon stacks of sorted documents. Harding. Withers. Smash and grab on 32nd. Missing persons on 108th. Loose sheets bending and twisting looking for companionship. Reaching for a mate, yet cast aside.

Dani and JT stepped into the conference room sipping warm beverages. “What is this, an F4, F5?” JT commented.

Gil’s eyes narrowed and looked away before he turned to them. “Seen Bright?” he asked with a sigh.

Dani walked past the wreckage to the stacks, trying to discern what he had been looking for. “If he worked on this all night, maybe he’s home sleeping.”

“Does that sound like Bright to you?” he raised his voice in skepticism.

“No.”

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Inside voice,” JT reminded.

Malcolm strode through the door, gestures carrying through to the bags he had in hand. "I have coffee," he said, setting it on a file cabinet, "and bagels, and a few scones of the day."

Hands free, his frame vibrated with energy seeking any path to exit, his legs fidgeting, his hands moving. His suit was the same as the previous day, his suit jacket a tad more wrinkled at the back, his pant legs a bit tired.

“ _Florida man high on life bounces off velcro walls, sticks to ceiling_ ,” JT retorted into his coffee.

“Do I have to tell Stan not to let you in after eight?” Gil asked, frustrated with the kid he had to sequester to keep home.

“I was awake. There was plenty to do here,” Malcolm justified.

“Bright, ya gotta get some sleep,” JT urged. He’d lost count of how many times Malcolm had pulled some version of this in the past month.

Malcolm raised an eyebrow in surprise. “This is a thing we do now? Maybe we can get back to the open question at hand - just what is that J short for?”

“The open question is who murdered Quentin Harding,” Gil directed them back on track.

“I answered that. Have some breakfast and I’ll take you through it.” Malcolm opened the box of scones and bagels at them.

“It’s too early for you to give me a headache,” Gil complained.

“I can’t give you a headache. You have choice in how you react to circumstances - “ Malcolm rambled, pushing the box toward Dani.

Gil’s patience was somewhere with the last time Malcolm had pulled an all-nighter, and the time before that, and - “ _Bright_ I will send you home right now. My choice.”

“Quentin started his day the usual way…”

* * *

Bruce had been missing six weeks. Whether a deal gone wrong or running from someone who had caught up with him, Quentin didn’t know. Every morning, he walked their neighborhood and down to the park, reflecting on his missing friend. If he had only gone with him when he left that day, if he had caught up with him at the park, if he had called to see that he made it home…

But there weren’t do-overs. He’d take a deep breath, look out at the swings they used to fight over as kids, and haul his duffle bag over his shoulder. Trudge several blocks to catch the subway to a different neighborhood where a building had commissioned a mural and paint the day away.

If Quentin had a teammate as he preferred, they’d reach full coverage faster, yet the budget didn’t afford one. The project was eating a lot of his time, devouring the little revenue he might receive. But it was a piece, that might lead to another piece, that might lead to something. What? He didn’t know, but _something_.

Each layer of paint hid more of the darkness, bringing the final shades closer to fruition. Matte black was turning into purples, reds, oranges, and golds, lighting a fire behind two men running down the alley, leaving only his paint cans in their wake.

They left him, alive, on the outskirts, a gold pendant chipped into his pocket. Teetering home brought faces he didn’t recognize and a name he thought he’d never hear again. He struggled to place them, to ask about his friend, and with a slash, Bruce’s cohorts left him dead.

* * *

“Found Quentin painting in the security cam footage on 32nd, and the pendant is consistent with jewelry they sell. I’ve got him on NYPD cam entering the subway beaten,” Malcolm explained. “The knife wound came after. If we bring in Bruce’s associates, maybe we figure out what happened to both of them.”

“Do I want to know how you connected this?” Gil asked.

Malcolm shrugged, brushing it off as no big deal. “Standard police work. And I went for a walk.”

* * *

Little Malcolm sat on the Harding stack, the Withers stack, and every crack in between Malcolm had let out of his focus. Pushed papers into boxes, taunted, lingering battered and blue. Until the latest pile had strewn across the floor, sending him to the street to cut some phantoms loose.

Windows. The occasional person. Sidewalk, sidewalk, water, around. Subway uptown. Watching Little Malcolm reach for a hand, play with a knife, anything to twist his mind. Realizing he’d missed the stop and hopping out past it, backtracking, moseying, mumbling thoughts of what Quentin may have seen. Exploring entrances to alleyways and boarded storefronts. Eventually returning on the subway to the precinct, only Malcolm in his shoes.

* * *

"If I go missing, who would look for me?" Malcolm asked.

JT crossed his arms. “We already played this game: _Florida man held captive by man with 20-year grudge_."

"It's so tame when you say it,” Malcolm acknowledged, and a beat later, "You all looked for me."

"And?" Dani was eager to get the point rather than continue rambling the way there.

"Quentin was the only one worried about Bruce. The only one looking for a man who disappeared,” Malcolm relayed.

"Witness?" JT wondered.

"No - he didn't mention that anywhere in his statement."

"Loose end?” Dani supposed.

"If you get off one stop past and walk to Quentin's place, there are all kinds of opportunities to get jumped." The alley that swallowed the box he fought not to run to. The storefront that reflected Little Malcolm. The crevice the girl crept out of.

"You didn't..." Gil rushed to confirm Malcolm hadn’t gotten into more trouble.

A quick “No."

" _Florida man goes for walk, breaks every bone_." JT’s concern and annoyance were wrapped in the headline, a blinking neon sign to Malcolm that his choices were not alright. That his outfit screamed money, and what was he thinking wandering in the middle of the night.

"You forgot the midnight part,” Malcolm added.

“ _I_ did not." Gil frowned. He already had a headache burrowing under his eyebrows.

Malcolm continued, “We thought it was just that he was killed near his apartment, but I pulled Bruce’s arrest records: Quentin was found in Bruce’s territory. It’s on the route if you miss the stop.”

Gil’s hand raised to his temple. “We would have connected this today. This didn’t need a profiler,” Gil chided.

“Right, but I figured it out last night so we can work on something else today.” Malcolm’s glee over the solve wasn’t mirrored in any of them.

More logic, but Malcolm didn’t press Gil’s buttons for logic. “Why didn’t you wait for us?” JT asked.

Malcolm looked into the distance, his eyes capturing everything and nothing at the same time. Little Malcolm inside the box. Sitting, playing. “Hmm, what?” he asked when his vision cleared.

Camping at the precinct, midnight walk, space cadet. “You're still hallucinating,” JT pointed out, hitting the problem head on. The statement was out before he could consider a better time or place to address the observation.

Malcolm stilled, a slight rock coming from his ankles. They hadn’t talked about it, hadn’t mentioned what they had heard from the bugged conference room since they had debriefed on the cult case. It wasn't troublesome, just unexpected. “It's not like there's a switch I can turn off."

“Choice, right? You can call us instead of coming here,” JT offered.

“Can we get back to - “ this time, Malcolm was left trying to get everyone back on the case.

He didn't want to corner the guy, but the issue was important. He was important. “I’m serious. I don’t want a call that your ass is dead because you wouldn’t pick up the damn phone,” JT impressed on him.

“ _Florida man brains self_.” Malcolm mimed a distraction, rolling his eyes sideways, yet it fell flat at their glares.

“It’s not funny when you do it like that,” Dani stopped the exchange. Sad. A subtle reminder that he might actually do the thing he wrapped in their collective coping mechanism.

“Go track down Bruce’s associates.” Gil directed JT and Dani, and Malcolm moved to exit with them. “Not you,” Gil held him back, “no field until you’ve slept.”


	3. Chapter 3

A tricep rested against his knuckles. A belly pressed against his back. Shoulder to shoulder. Calf against calf.

The station announcement was barely intelligible over the speakers, and the horde pushed out of the train. Waves of limbs checked his, bumbling to their destinations.

He made it inside, an electric whip crackling his starter. "JT. JT. JT."

JT looked to the entryway where the call of his name continued. One glimpse of the man and he was apologizing to Tally and crossing the room.

Sweatpants and a t-shirt hung off of him, his hair mussed in endless directions. Permanent eye black streaked under his eyes. His energy screamed rave, while his body wailed for respite.

“JT. JT. JT.” His hand reached for JT’s, and JT grabbed it, trying to ground the man.

"Hey -"

He squeezed hard, his fingers digging in, impressing his urgency. “JT. JT. JT. Ya gotta help me. JT.”

Malcolm's pulse hammered under his thumb. "Bright -"

"Every Friday you and Tally play pool at Amsterdam Billiards. Am-ster-dam. Find JT at Am-ster-dam Billiards. JT can help." He repeated the mantra like he’d forget what to do if he stopped.

This wasn’t the Malcolm Tally had met. The $10,000 suit and any semblance of composure were missing. She appeared at JT's side, holding her hand out to him. "Keys. I'll get the car."

Malcolm’s reel looped, “Tally and JT at Amsterdam Billiards. Help. Help!"

Every face in the place trained on them. Malcolm grabbed at JT's shoulder and JT hugged him close, shielding him from the room. "Hey - I got you."

"She's not real. She's. Not. Real." Someone else was climbing out of the box; someone he couldn’t suppress. He’d followed until a car brushed his kneecaps, or had he brushed the car? There was yelling, and he was confused, and it wasn’t helping. Nothing was helping. He wasn’t supposed to keep talking to his father, wasn’t supposed to poke the bear of his memories, wasn’t -

"Walk with me." JT guided him toward the door. “Are you hurt?” he asked when he got him outside.

“She’s not real,” continued into his shirt.

JT tipped his chin up with stiff fingers. “Bright - are you hurt?”

“No.”

But JT couldn’t hold his attention, and Malcolm was right back to mumbling into his shirt. Like he'd done at so many crime scenes once the adrenaline had drained, Malcolm’s legs went limp at the car, and JT folded him into the back seat. He got him pushed over enough so he could sit next to him and let out a long exhale. Of all things, he looked asleep? Passed out? The energy may have escaped him, but it now pounded in JT’s chest.

Tally’s eyes seeped concern into the back seat. "Where am I driving?"

There was only one place to go. “Gil’s.”

She'd been there a few times before, yet pulled up the address in Google Maps. "Twenty," she confirmed.

* * *

To say JT was shocked Malcolm had reached out for help was a vast understatement. Incredibly glad given the state he was in: yes. Confident in his ability to help yet unsure exactly how: yes. Convinced Gil could help: yes. Annoyed he couldn’t follow instructions and call rather than show up: yes. Equally angry with himself for even briefly considering the annoyance: yes. Concerned, and needed, and he was breathing, and…overwhelmed.

Gil had sent Malcolm home at lunch when his nails were digging into his thumb to keep himself awake. It was the second day of the behavior, but judging by Gil’s reaction, the first day he had seen. Should he have said something? No: that’s not how they worked. Some days the burdens were a little heavier, but they kept going until they were manageable. If they stopped, they’d sink.

Was it unnatural to be unable to stop moving? Could people without demons be still? Were there any people without demons? If there were, could they take a few away from Bright?

How could rest be the bane of his existence? And if it was, how could he be at peace across a car seat while thoughts hammered away beside him?

* * *

JT didn’t know how he and Gil had gotten him up the walkup and into Gil’s. His shrill panic was gone, and in its place a boneless form they needed to muscle up the stairs. Gil had settled him into the couch and covered him with a thick blanket, and they both sat watch, collecting themselves.

“He can’t go off the deep end every time I put my foot down,” bubbled out, and Gil bit his lip in immediate regret. He knew Malcolm didn’t have control. It didn’t make him worry any less.

“Maybe don’t say that to him,” JT cautioned.

Gil glared in return.

“Would he have taken something?” JT wondered at the drastic change in behavior.

“It’s been a while since that phase.” Gil rested his forehead at the top of his arms sitting on his knees. “Any idea what happened?”

“None. He kept saying my name and calling for help like some damned broken record, commented she’s not real, and turned into this by the time we hit the car.” He pointed. “He said he’s not hurt, but I don’t know if someone messed with him, or he’s sick, or didn’t get enough sleep, or -“

“It’s alright,” Gil stopped him, well aware of the range of emotions that spiraled while caring for Malcolm.

“I didn’t see anything physically wrong with him in the car, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t hurt him.”

Only experience had stopped most of the wandering in Gil’s mind, though he’d taken a few detours. “We’ll get a better idea when he’s up. Let’s not let our heads run wild now.”

JT recounted his recollection from the car, “I don’t think he’s slept in a few days.”

Gil raised his head from his hands and scoffed. “He would call that a typical week.”

“I call that bullshit.” Lines he fed to deflect, divert attention from his suffering body so he could keep on living without the crushing weight of concerned eyes.

Gil couldn't disagree. He also couldn't apply any normal measure of sleep to Malcolm. He sighed. What was haunting him?

They waited to see if he would rouse. When he didn’t, Gil directed JT toward the kitchen. “Have you eaten anything?”

“No.”

Gil opened the cupboard. “I’ll make us something. Get yourself a drink if you want.”

JT was still trying to wrap his head around what was going on. “I’m good.”

A pot of water was going onto the stove as he said, “Tally’s downstairs.”

“I’m here for the long haul," JT rushed the words out as if his loyalty had been questioned.

Gil smiled. “I figured. I mean you should probably call her up. Or suggest going home. It’s gonna be a long night.”

JT ran his hand across his face. “Shit, yeah.” He took another look over at Malcolm. He couldn’t leave. A quick call and he had Tally joining them for dinner.

* * *

The nightmares kept coming. He’d hit the floor, himself, and even tried to cross the room, but JT woke him, brought him back to the couch, and he’d fall asleep again. One endless loop of waking and sleeping, waking and sleeping. JT didn’t know how Malcolm did it - he was dragging at the lack of sleep. But then again, he did - it had just been awhile since his sleep had been disrupted.

Tally had gone home with JT’s promise to keep her updated. Gil had headed to bed, but JT had refused. He took the floor, kind of leaning against a chair, on the lookout for any movement from Malcolm.

Scraps of "you were closest," "needed help," and "thanks JT" had fallen throughout. As had complaints of being tired and apologies. JT couldn't take another sorry - he didn't even feel like he'd done enough to help.

Late morning, Malcolm unleashed a yell to wake the dead. JT had him when he shot up on the couch, grabbed his hand when he thought his eyes were clearing, held him as he sobbed into his chest.

Gil retreated back to the bedroom, knowing Malcolm was in good hands.

* * *

When his panic had ebbed to where it scratched his skin, but didn’t overwhelm him, Malcolm pulled back. He brushed his face, trying to make the tears disappear, but they kept leaking. “ _Florida man drowns friend after crying a river_ ,” Malcolm got out between snuffles.

“More like _Florida man_ …” JT tried to come up with a witty reply, but the words were gone with his sleep. ”Oh, I don’t know.”

The corner of Malcolm’s mouth cracked in an attempt at a smile. He dropped his face in his hands, but it was a bit late to hide.

JT gave some distance between them on the couch. “Are you hurt?” JT repeated the question, needing to hear a more coherent response.

“No." He rose from the couch, looking for more space. "Gonna wash up.” He pointed toward the bathroom.

Malcolm was halfway across the room when he stopped and asked, “Who was winning?”

“Tally.”

He nodded and continued on.

* * *

Malcolm's hair had found some order, and perhaps his mind too - the tears were gone. They sat at the kitchen table, Malcolm reaching for some fragment of explanation. “I normally sleep with restraints.”

“You sleep?” JT teased, offering the familiar.

He clung to the banter. “On Friday nights. Gotta get ready for the weekend, or something like that.”

“Something.”

His nerves went through his hair with his hand. “I-I’m prone to wandering.”

“No shit.” It would have been easier to tie the man down than keep returning him to the couch all night.

“I was walking in the street. There was some commotion.” His hands flitted through the memories. “A bar clock near the sign for the subway reminded me you were closest. I’m sor-”

JT wasn't going to hear that word again. “Glad you reached out.”

“My head’s kind of a mess. That's the most sleep I've gotten in...” he trailed off, leaving the response in his thoughts.

JT stayed silent, not knowing if he wanted to talk or if he was just trying to explain himself. He didn't know what commotion meant, yet didn't know if he really wanted to know when it came to Malcolm given he had said he wasn't hurt. He watched the shutters of practiced detachment close and reinforce Malcolm’s posture.

“Martin Whitly was grooming me or torturing me - I’m not sure which. I don’t know. I...don’t…” Malcolm quieted, taking a deep breath. “Do you want coffee? I could make coffee. Or tea? Or?”

“Coffee’s fine. Thankfully Gil doesn’t have your fancy stuff.”

Malcolm escaped the table. “Normal coffee coming up.”

* * *

Gil joined them at the kitchen table when the smell of coffee drifted into his room. JT gave them a bit of space now that he had help looking after Malcolm, heading to the bathroom and returning to the couch.

“Gil, she’s not real,” Malcolm insisted.

The coffee tasted mighty good on worried sleep. “What do you mean?” Gil asked.

“Some of my memories of the girl in the box aren’t real. They’re me.” Maybe each memory was a different spectrum of being groomed, tortured, some the girl, some him, slowly separating out in the still moments.

But that didn’t mean they weren’t real, right? How had he even come to this conclusion? Maybe he was confused. Or trying to protect himself. Or there were so many bad memories, the details got lost in the wash. He’d said so many variants of those phrases in the past trying to explain the unexplainable, yet he’d been wrong. He wasn’t about to voice them again. “Okay.”

Malcolm’s hands went into his hair. “No, no - nothing’s okay.”

Something had tipped him from managing to struggling - they could help him tip back. Gil went for more specific the second time. “Okay - what can I do?”

“I need to talk, but I can’t talk, but -“ A hand at his neck stopped the rambling. “Gabrielle’s?”

“Sure. I’ll get you a sweater and we can go.” Gil turned to JT. “We’ll drop you off on the way.”

He certainly didn’t want to be in the way of getting Malcolm whatever he needed. “I can get a Lyft.”

“Nope,” Gil declined and disappeared to the bedroom.

JT was getting out of the car when Malcolm offered, “Thanks, JT. A lot of thanks.”

“Anytime, bro. Anytime.” And then a response finally came to him as he was walking up to his apartment. _Earth still in orbit after Florida man asks for help_.


	4. Chapter 4

First, a mystery Dum Dum was in his mug.

Then a mystery Dum Dum was in his desk drawer.

“Don’t touch my stuff,” JT barked, pointing the Dum Dum at Malcolm before adding it to his mug.

Gil walked in the next morning to…was that styrofoam? And Dani and Malcolm in wait in the conference room. “When did my precinct become a playground?” They’d all been working a lot - how had they even found time…

“Sit with us,” Dani directed, trying to get him out of their view, knowing it could be any minute like clockwork.

“Oh, hell no,” JT muttered, walking by his desk and going straight for the conference room.

Smirks hid behind fists, yet their gleaming eyes gave them away. “I am getting coffee, and when I get back, those are going to be gone,” JT ordered, his voice firm enough he didn’t bother to point.

“Yes, sir, Jaylin, sir,” Malcolm taunted between his fingers.

JT’s glare could have sliced him in half. “How about you use your money for something useful? Not five pounds of lollipops.”

“Oh, it’s thirty.” Dani dropped her hands and grinned.

Malcolm followed suit. “2,340 Dum Dums give or take the few Dani ate while -“

She pushed his shoulder. “Like you didn’t eat any.”

“I don’t give a damn how many there are,” JT snapped. “Get them off my desk.”

Gil stepped out to get coffee with JT while Dani and Malcolm went to disassemble the smorgasbord of standing, individually placed Dum Dums from the styrofoam covering the top of JT’s desk. They had made it to the end of the hall when JT turned and said, “You can leave some of the root beer and lemon lime ones in the mug.”

“Those are my favorites,” Malcolm beamed.

“Exactly.”

* * *

_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to my discord pals who explained why bright was florida :)


End file.
